


Observations

by Severina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, Community: getyourwordsout, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 16:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8761327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: His job is to observe, and he has done so for millennia. Today, he is watching Dean Winchester devour a slice of pie.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asphaltcowgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphaltcowgrrl/gifts).



> I haven't watched SPN in years (I gave up on it back around S8) and was never into the fandom, but I loved the Dean/Cas dynamic in the glory years (S3 to S5) so this is set somewhere around S5-ish. Written for asphaltcowgrrl for the Swap of Joy at LJ's 1_million_words and for the hotel room prompt at LJ's getyourwordsout Bingo. Although Dean must have come into some loot to afford that place. ;)
> 
> [ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Severina2001/media/gywo%20bingo/14%20hotel%20bedroom_zpshjcpstyw.jpg.html)

Observations  
By Severina

His job is to observe, and he has done so for millennia.

Today, he is watching Dean Winchester devour a slice of pie. 

The pie was purchased at a run-down diner just off the interstate, a place with dirty windows and sticky flytraps hanging from the ceiling. The meal is taking place at a rickety table in a motel room on the outskirts of Topeka, and Dean is making noises that Castiel normally associates with more primal pursuits. He watches as Dean's mouth opens in preparation for another bite, follows the slow progress of the fork, licks his lips involuntarily when Dean's lips curl around the tines. 

"You want a bite?"

Castiel blinks, his gaze flicking to Dean's eyes. "No."

"You're practically drooling," Dean says. He gestures with the fork, leaning across the table, a hefty morsel of apple and cinnamon balancing precariously on the utensil. "C'mon, just try it."

Castiel eases a little further away from the fork. "I do not require food to maintain this body, Dean," he says, although he has explained this to the eldest Winchester many times before.

"This isn't about nutritional requirements, Cas!" Dean says. "Pie isn’t something you _need_. It's something you _want_. It's about engaging all of the senses, man." He breathes deeply. "Smell that. You smell it? Sweet but just a little bit tart, too. And then you take a bite and you get the contrast between the airy pastry and the apple slices, soft but with just enough snap to retain their crispness, and the way the thick cinnamon coats the tongue. It's not about fuel, Cas! It's about the _experience_ of the pie."

"Only you could make a transcendental meditation out of eating apple pie," Sam says without looking up from his computer screen.

Castiel would point out that Dean only illustrated two of the five senses – perhaps three, if Castiel allowed that the touch of tongue and lips to the dessert was implicit in his description – but then Dean leans back contentedly in the wooden chair and wraps his lips around the fork and _moans_ , and Castiel forgets what he was going to say.

(Later, when the vampire in Topeka has been eradicated and the brothers are sleeping, Castiel returns to the motel room and tentatively picks up the fork and spears some of the leftovers. The pie is not as sublime as Dean depicted and he does not like cinnamon, but he finds that buried beneath the flavours of apple and sugar is the taste of Dean himself. He eats three forkfuls.)

* * *

One week later, Castiel cocks his head and watches as Dean rummages beneath the hood of his car. His clothes are protected by grease-stained blue coveralls, his knuckles are already scraped raw from an incident with the engine block, and one would never know that two nights previous he had almost lost his life in a battle with a particularly nasty witch in Shreveport. Dean has already moved on; Castiel will never forget.

"Is Baby… unwell?" he asks. He does not understand Dean's insistence on assigning anthropomorphic attributes to an inanimate object, but he does his best to accommodate the idiosyncrasy. 

"Just a tune-up," Dean answers, slanting his head to look up at him. The sun catches in his eyes, making them sparkle sea-green even as he squints to avoid the light. "You wanna lend a hand?"

Castiel looks down confusedly at the appendage in question. "I'm not sure how the removal of my hand would assist you in your task."

Dean sighs in the way that Castiel has come to understand indicates a mixture of frustration and rueful amusement. "You wanna _help_?" he clarifies.

Aaah. "No," Castiel says. "Unless you wish me to—"

"What? No!" Dean says, cutting him off as he is about to lift his arms to demonstrate just how he could restore the aged car with his powers. "You keep your crazyass angel shit away from Baby. Half the fun is using good old fashioned know-how and elbow grease to keep this beauty running." 

(Occasionally Castiel affects minor repairs to Dean's vehicle, probing with his senses to find a frayed cord or worn piston that may not last until their next stop at Bobby's. It would not be wise to have the car break down at a critical juncture. Dean has never noticed.)

"Of course, Dean," he says.

Dean nods and runs his hand lovingly over one of Baby's side panels before bending back to his work, and Castiel does not feel envy. And while he cannot understand how it is 'fun' to wrestle with the placement of small parts while cursing intermittently, he still sits on a pile of worn tires for two hours, listening to the music coming from Dean's radio and watching Dean work.

Angels are supposed to observe, after all.

* * *

He is not supposed to observe Dean in the shower.

There are certain human activities that are considered private and sacrosanct, and these were enumerated to him in explicit detail immediately after the time he popped into the bathroom while Dean was urinating. Since that day, the bathroom is strictly off-limits unless shaving is involved, and even then he is supposed to knock and wait to be admitted.

(Usually he can sense when Dean is engaged in cleansing his body. On those occasions he takes himself far away from the source of his temptation. Most often to a remote mountaintop in Tibet.)

On this day, Castiel is preoccupied with thoughts of his brothers. He wishes to speak to Dean – to discuss an aspect of the impending apocalypse that he had previously discounted and gain Dean's insight, not because he is feeling unsettled or in need of human contact – so he simply thinks himself to Dean's location. Which happens to be the bathroom of a tiny motel room in the small town of Pleasant Bend, Illinois.

Castiel freezes. 

The room is filled with billowing steam, but his sharp eyesight can still discern the crisp outline of Dean's body in the shower stall. He watches as Dean swipes a bar of soap over his chest. Dean's head is tipped back, and Castiel imagines that Dean's eyes are closed as he revels in the pungent tang of the cleansing agent, the comforting warmth of the water sluicing over the planes of his back, the pounding of the spray against his weary muscles.

This, not apple pie, is a feast for the senses.

Castiel's gaze follows the drops of water as they make their meandering course down Dean's body. One drips from the tip of his nose to plop onto the bottom of the bathtub; one curves a path along his hip, catching bubbles in its wake; one hangs ponderously from his…

Castiel takes one stumbling step forward before sanity reasserts itself.

He does not notice the shower curtain twitch, or the sudden stillness of Dean's body before he pops out of the room.

This time, he chooses a snowy peak in Oland. He crouches, pools his trench coat around his feet, and tries very hard to think of nothing at all.

* * *

Observing Dean as he imbibes copious amounts of alcohol is an arduous task.

They are ostensibly celebrating a rather spectacular triumph over a nest of demons in Stockbridge. But Sam had disappeared with his pet demon after a single beer and a whiskey chaser, leaving him alone with an increasingly intoxicated Dean and a bar full of people who were growing tired of hearing the hunter continually plug in quarters to hear the single AC/DC song that is programmed into the jukebox. 

"Perhaps," Castiel suggests for the third time, "we should return to the motel."

Dean finishes screaming along with the song's chorus before turning bleary eyes to him. "You," he says, pointing one long index finger, "are a spoilsport."

"Yes," Castiel agrees. He will agree that he is the spawn of Lilith herself would it encourage Dean to remove himself from the roadhouse. Fortunately it appears to be the correct answer because Dean shrugs up from the table, leaving a twenty dollar bill for a tip and a litter of empty beer mugs. Castiel does not miss the relieved looks on the other patrons faces, nor the scramble as the barkeep hastily moves to unplug the jukebox, cutting the ersatz singer off in mid-screech.

He manages to escort Dean back to the motel relatively unscathed, but when Dean spends long seconds fumbling with the key Castiel takes it upon himself to simply transport them inside. When Dean blinks and stumbles against him, Castiel sucks in a breath. There is a lot of Dean and he seems to be pressing against every inch of him. It is difficult to get a full breath. It is more difficult to think.

"You gonna stay?" Dean asks.

Castiel frowns, twisting his head to look at the second of the twin beds. Sam's bed. But Sam has gone off and is not likely to return until morning, though Dean does not know of this. And if Sam were to return… But then, it may be that Dean requires him to stay because of his intoxication. He has known of humans who suffer extreme illness when recovering from the aftereffects of overindulging in spirits.

Dean is waiting for an answer, and his fingers have now wound their way into his lapels, and Castiel still cannot think. "Sam may not like it if he finds his bed occupied," he begins.

"There's another bed," Dean points out.

Castiel brow furrows. "That is your bed, Dean."

"Yes, Cas," Dean says dryly. "I know."

Castiel looks from the rumpled covers to the man whose face is inches from his own. Despite his eons of observation, he feels that this situation is entirely new to him. There is simply no response that he feels able to give, so he simply gapes like a fish in a pond.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Dean mutters just before he leans forward and presses their lips together.

It comes to Castiel that Dean is not as drunk as he had surmised.

Dean's lips are also warmer than he had imagined they would be, and the taste of yeast and fermented hops on his tongue does not overwhelm the familiar musky, aromatic scent that Dean normally carries. Dean's hands are warm, too, where they rest on the sides of his neck, and he can feel the ridge of new scar tissue from Dean's injury in Topeka pressing against his skin. Dean takes too many chances on these hunts, he has no idea how important he is and one day, one day Castiel knows that he will not be there to give him aid and then Dean will fall and--

Dean pulls away from him, his eyes focused and clear. "Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"You're thinking too much."

"Oh," Castiel says. He tries a wan smile. "Sorry."

"No problem," Dean says, and then they are kissing again. Then _he_ is kissing Dean, and somehow his trench coat and tie are on the floor and Dean's warm hands are smoothing beneath his shirt and the backs of his knees are catching the edge of the bed and he tumbles down onto sheets that smell of Dean with Dean covering him and Dean's teeth nipping at his collarbone. Castiel stops thinking then, and stops watching, and just lets himself feel.

* * *

His job is to observe, and he has done so for millennia.

Tonight, he is watching Dean Winchester snore. 

Dean is splayed out on the bed, taking up most of the available space. Castiel does not mind. His body still tingles, aftershocks playing out under his skin from what they have done. He watches Dean and after a moment he allows himself to curve his palm over Dean's hip. Dean mumbles something in his sleep and moves just a little closer.

Castiel leans back against the pillow, staring up at the stained motel ceiling. He has heard in his travels of hotel rooms with garish displays, including those with large mirrors affixed to the ceiling above the bed.

He glances back at Dean, and smiles. Now _that_ would be something to see.


End file.
